


Ignite

by songlin



Series: Celestial Bodies [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Verse, Omega!Sherlock, Role Reversal, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew the dangers of going on suppressants for so long. It didn't matter at the time. But now there's John again, and he'd like nothing more than to give John his heat.</p><p><i>Please, </i>please<i> let me do that. I don't want to have ruined everything. Let me have this one thing.<i></i></i></p><p>(One hundred-percent mpreg-FREE and CONSENSUAL omegaverse for all your needs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tinder

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ignite/火热](https://archiveofourown.org/works/996216) by [estoyenamorade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estoyenamorade/pseuds/estoyenamorade)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ignite/火热](https://archiveofourown.org/works/996216) by [estoyenamorade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estoyenamorade/pseuds/estoyenamorade)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ignite/火热](https://archiveofourown.org/works/996216) by [estoyenamorade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estoyenamorade/pseuds/estoyenamorade)



Sherlock drops on top of John in his armchair and winds his arms round his. “I’m _bored.”_

John sighs, tosses his book onto the end table, slouches down and massages circles in Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock hums with satisfaction and nuzzles into John’s neck.

“So when you say ‘bored,’” John says, “what you actually mean is ‘randy.’”

Sherlock makes a disagreeable noise and rubs his cheek on John’s shoulder. John turns his head and kisses the shell of his ear. Sherlock shivers.

John would like to hold out on him, purely out of spite. He doesn’t exist purely to satisfy the whims of Sherlock Holmes. But after all, it’s very hard to resist when he’s warm and soft and needy and very, _very_ on top of you. He grimaces and pulls Sherlock into a kiss.

Things stay tender and slow and intimate for some time. They rock together in John’s chair, fully clothed, moaning softly into each other’s mouths and groping at whatever they can reach. It’s sweet and delicious and _achingly_ good. John squeezes Sherlock’s lush arse and bucks his hips up, chasing orgasm--

Sherlock makes a furious, frustrated noise and throws himself out of John’s lap and onto the sofa.

John leans back in his chair, blows out a long breath, and resists the urge to yank his trousers down and wank himself to completion.

“Are we going to talk now,” he says, forcing his voice even, “or are you going to leave me to die?”

Sherlock hugs their Union Jack pillow to his chest and rolls over onto his front. John grinds his teeth.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock growls into the cushions.

_“Sherlock!”_

“BORED!” he shouts, exploding off of the sofa and storming into the kitchen. He wrenches open a cabinet and slams it shut again.

John rubs at his forehead.

Sherlock slams his hands on the kitchen table and shakes his head. “It’s been _eight months,”_ he snaps. “Eight months, John!”

_Ah._

John gives his waning erection a half-hearted squeeze and bids it a rueful farewell. “It’ll come.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw and meets John’s gaze from across the room. His eyes are wide and wild. “It might not,” he says quietly.

John’s mouth twists sideways. _Oh, love._

John is a doctor. He has some idea of what extended drug abuse and years on suppressants can do to an omega’s reproductive and endocrine systems. As soon as Sherlock decided to go off suppressants, John commenced the uphill battle of badgering him into seeing a doctor. It took countless hours of nagging, two real arguments and, as a last resort, some post-coital pleading, but he won Sherlock over in the end.

Sherlock sulked all the way to the office and spoke only when posed a direct question. There was a long checklist full of questions that John filled out while Sherlock glowered at the woman behind the desk.

“When was your last heat?”

“Third week of February, 2004.” Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest and looks straight ahead.

_Six years._ John’s stomach dropped. There were people who’d gone on to have healthy sex lives, even children, after four years under, even five, but _six?_

Then came the exam. Sherlock lay on his back on the table with his feet in the stirrups and his hands folded on his chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. When the doctor slid the ultrasound wand up and in, his jaw clenched and he pulled in a quick, quiet breath through his nose. The hand nearest John dropped to his side. John inched forward, took the hand and squeezed.

John knew what to expect as soon as the doctor sat them down in her office rather than giving them the results in the exam room. While they waited, Sherlock drummed his fingers and toes against every surface within reach. Usually, John would reach across and put a firm hand on his knee or arm to stop him. But he let it go. Circumstances and all.

The doctor sat down and slid a manila folder across the desk. Sherlock eyed the folder, but the doctor did not remove her hand. He couldn’t snatch it without looking rude, and John could _smell_ his frustration.

“Mr. Holmes,” the doctor said. “Obviously we’re still waiting on blood tests, but my I feel fairly comfortable disclosing a partial diagnosis based on your medical history, physical exam and ultrasound results.”

Sherlock nodded tersely and eyed the folder.

“I understand you’ve no plans to have children,” she said. It wasn’t a question. John felt an irrational desire to kick her.

Sherlock nodded again.

“The ultrasound revealed atrophy in the fallopian tubes. Corrective surgery is a viable option, but if you’ve no plans to conceive I would recommend against it.”

Sherlock was watching her hand on the folder.

“As for your ability to enter estrus, it’s up in the air. The vaginal seal and Bartholin glands are responsive, which is good, but the fact is that not all bodies will continue to go through estrus in the absence of a released ovum. The blood tests may be more conclusive, but even a strong result will only indicate whether or not it is _likely._ The only sure way to know is to wait a few months and see.”

Sherlock ground his teeth.

“If your blood tests don’t look good, there are hormone regimens that we can look into. Overall, I’d recommend you sit tight and see how things turn out.” She gave them a small, sympathetic smile. “Any questions?”

Sherlock shook his head once.

A week later, the doctor called to let them know the blood tests were inconclusive. She recommended waiting a year to see whether or not medications were necessary, and John and Sherlock haven’t mentioned it since.

John chews his lip. “Look, at your age, that’s only, what, two, maybe three cycles? You’re not twenty anymore. You can’t expect to go into heat every month.”

Sherlock shoves off the table, backs into the counter, folds his arms over his chest and scowls out the window. _“Eight months.”_

John rolls out of his chair, crosses to Sherlock, and wraps his arms around his waist. “Hey. _Hey,_ come here.”

Sherlock remains stubbornly limp, but allows John to lead him over to the sofa, push him down onto his side, and cuddle up behind him. John nestles his face into Sherlock’s hair and kisses the top of his spine.

“I love you, you big idiot,” he says. “I love you, and you love me, and we’re _fine,_ however things turn out. We’re _excellent,_ matter of fact.” He rubs his hands up and down Sherlock’s ribcage. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. We’ve got quite a lot of lube in the bedside drawer and I’d like to put some of it in that magnificent arse of yours, if you’re up for it, because fucking you feels like a bloody religious experience whether you’re in heat or not.” He pecks a few more soft kisses at his nape. “Or you could use it in mine, because we are kinky bastards, and you can see if you can make me come without touching my cock and I’ll see if it’s possible to actually _see_ God.”

Sherlock stirs. His breathing evens out and his ears twitch back with interest. John smiles.

“You like that, love?” He nuzzles the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hums in affirmation.

“Tell me why. No, wait--turn over. I want to watch you.”

Sherlock turns over, cups the base of John’s skull and pulls him into a kiss. His eyes are still shut when he draws back and catches his lower lip in his teeth. They flutter slowly open and fixate on John’s, bright and burning like stars. Something hot and expansive settles in John’s core.

“It feels like unraveling you,” he says softly, one thumb stroking at the hair by John’s temple. “Like--peeling you down to your core, or like--cracking open your shell and exposing your dark meat.”

_Oh, shit._ John swallows. “Does it make you feel powerful?”

“Powerful?” Sherlock presses his forehead to John’s and practically breathes the words against his lips. “I feel _omnipotent.”_

John shivers.

“As for you,” Sherlock says, “you feel _obliterated.”_

He’s so close that his lips move against John’s as he speaks. John’s heart rate spikes. His breath goes ragged and shallow. He squirms against Sherlock and pushes his erection into his thigh. It’s more of a tease than a relief.

And Sherlock _keeps talking._ “Like I’m the only thing keeping you from dissolving into atoms." His eyelids drift half shut. For a brief second he looks as if his control is wavering, but then he brings his head up and brushes his lips over John's, the foreplay to a kiss, and he's _back_. "You always look surprised when I push my cock into you. Would you like me to tell you why?”

John whines against his lips.

“You _forget,”_ he whispers. “You forget how much you love it, and so every time feels like the first. Every time is an invasion. Every time, the trespass is entirely novel and entirely _mine.”_ He bites lightly at John’s lip. John tries to surge forward and kiss him, but Sherlock ducks just an inch away. “Let me _possess_ you, John,” he says, voice low and dark and rough. “Let me occupy you, body and soul, for as long as we both fit inside.” He mouths at John’s lip, not quite kissing, just feeling, teasing. “Let me in.”

“Oh, _God,_ yes,” John gasps, and crushes their mouths together.

Sherlock kisses him like he’s tasting fine cuisine. Like small, dainty bites of a filet. John wants to be _gorged_ upon. He catches Sherlock’s tongue between his teeth. Sherlock growls and gropes at John’s back and arse and thighs. John groans, clutches at his hip and slides one hand up Sherlock’s shirt. Their mouths break briefly to gasp in a breath and then collide again.

Sherlock’s fingers slip under the waistband of John’s trousers, under the elastic of his pants and glide down between his cheeks. John thrusts forward into Sherlock and sucks at his lower lip. The hand works down, down, and between, pulling one cheek aside and pressing a fingertip to the pucker of John’s arse. John moans and writhes and clutches. It’s good, _so_ good, better than he could remember it ever feeling _ever_.

He’s gentle but insistent, working the finger back and forth as John’s hole clenches greedily, until finally the tip slips just barely in.

John pulls back with a shocked cry. “Oh _God_ \--Jesus _fucking_ Christ, take me upstairs and fuck me til I _cry.”_

Some nights, John and Sherlock like to take the long way to nudity and strip each other naked. It’s slow and clumsy, but it’s what feels right in the moment. Other nights, they don’t even bother to undress all the way (or at all, in some instances) and do their groping and mouthing and humping around trousers and shirts and pants. Sometimes, they undress themselves, because they’re sensible people and it’s the fastest way.

And sometimes sense and logic go out the window, and despite the fact that pulling apart and undressing separately is undoubtedly the most efficient way to get naked, they persist in yanking at each other’s shirtfronts until buttons spring free while simultaneously stumbling backwards down the hall because there is absolutely _no fucking way_ that they are going to get their hands off each other.

John scrabbles at Sherlock’s zip. _“Fuck,”_ he says. “Get this-- _God, fucking_ \--get this _off--”_

_“Too many layers,”_ Sherlock snarls through gritted teeth, confronted by John’s vest. He peels it off over John’s head.

It feels like an _age_ before they are both finally, blessedly naked. John moans with relief, seizes Sherlock by the waist and drags him backwards onto the bed with him.

“Lube,” he says, sounding strange and drugged.

Sherlock licks his lips and eyes John’s mouth. “Bedside table.”

It’s still sitting on top of the alarm clock. John left it there three nights ago after spending the better part of an hour fingering Sherlock into a writhing mess. He snatches it up, slaps it into Sherlock’s hand, flops onto his back and spreads his legs. Sherlock’s eyes are piercingly bright. John drops his head back and blows out a long breath.

Sherlock kneels between his legs and presses a hand to the inside of John’s thigh. “Open your legs, John.”

John's knees fall further apart. He braces his feet against the mattress and angles his hips up. Sherlock smirks.

“How sluttish of you, John,” he says, squeezing a dollop of lube onto his fingers. “Whatever would your army mates think? Letting your _omega_ fuck you like this?”

“Oh, _fuck.”_ His cheeks burn red and he turns his head away.

“What would they say if they knew what you let me do to you?” A warm, slick finger edges into the crack of John’s arse. He squirms. “If they knew how much you love it?" Sherlock rubs round the outside of John's hole.

“I don’t care,” John blurts. “I don’t care, just fucking _do it.”_

Sherlock rubs his hand up and down the back of John’s thigh. “Anything, John,” he breathes, and eases one finger in.

John gives a long, low moan and squirms, trying for more and deeper. He slaps his hands to the headboard for added leverage.

“Come on,” he snarls. “Don’t you bloody _coddle_ me, don’t you _dare_.”

A second fingertip traces the ring of his arse. John’s eyes widen. Sherlock draws out and pushes back in with two. John moans loudly and balls his hands into fists.

“Oh, God yeah. Oh, you perfect fucking--divine bastard--”

Sherlock bites his lip and curls his fingers. He finds what he’s looking for on his second try, stroking his fingertips slowly over the tender bump. John’s limbs jerk and he lets out a high, shocked cry. Sherlock’s other hand hooks under John’s knee. He pushes his leg back as far as he can, just to the point where John can feel the stretch, and curls his fingers again. John very nearly kicks Sherlock in the face. Sherlock laughs.

John is unamused. “Don’t stop, don’t you _dare_ stop.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop.

John can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands. They press against the headboard, clenching and clawing. He presses one to his mouth and bites at his own thumb while the other twists in the sheets as Sherlock’s fingers twist and spiral and flex inside of him. Blood pulses in his cheeks.

“Perfect,” Sherlock says. John unscrews his eyes.

Sherlock looks mesmerized, eyes sweeping arcs up and down John’s body but drawn like satellites to where he’s sunk, four fingers now, deep inside.

“Oh, _please,”_ John whines.

The loss of the fingers inside him is devastating. John groans, feeling deflated. But then Sherlock’s hands are on his hips and his lips are on John’s throat and he’s whispering, “Let me in,” and that’s enough for John to be going on.

He fights back the urge to throw Sherlock down to the mattress and impale himself. Instead, he reaches behind, grabs one cheek and spreads himself open.

Sherlock looks like a fucking wet dream, flushed from face to chest and pupils dilated. He squeezes John’s knee while with his other hand he tries to get the tip of his cock--

“Oh _God,”_ John says loudly. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s not even in yet. “Get the fuck in me before I come, Sherlock, _fuck.”_

Sherlock swallows. Something spasms in his face. The head of his cock eases in.

John gasps, and Sherlock doesn't stop.

He’s slow, though, _agonizingly_ slow. John is making sounds. He is aware that he is making sounds, and yet he’s got not the slightest intention of stopping or quieting. He’s getting louder, in fact. Just then, Sherlock’s cock nudges past John’s prostate and John _shouts_.

“God--don’t stop, why are you--”

“I need--give me a--just a second,” Sherlock says, squeezing his eyes shut.

John whimpers and squeezes his thighs tighter around Sherlock.

Sherlock shivers. _“John.”_

John clenches his hands into fists and relaxes them. “I don’t care if it’s not long, I don’t care if you come in twenty minutes or twenty _seconds,_ will you please just _fuck_ _me_ already before I _fucking die--”_

Sherlock grits his teeth and pushes forward as John arches his back into the movement, and--that’s it.

“John,” he whispers. It sounds...reverent. Worshipful.

John grabs him by the nape of the neck and pulls him down into a kiss. Sherlock pulls back, almost out, and then snaps his hips forward. The startled sound John makes is more of a yell than a groan. Sherlock rolls his hips experimentally. This time, John moves too.

They pick up a rhythm, smooth and shallow and quick. John winds his legs around Sherlock’s waist and does his best to keep up.

John seems as if he can’t decide whether he wants to kiss Sherlock or watch him. He wants every inch of his skin against every inch of Sherlock’s, but he also wants to watch his beautiful features twisting in wonder and adoration and euphoria. John wants to tell him how beautiful he looks, how much he loves him, but he can’t think of a sentence that would say everything he wants to. He probably couldn’t say even a word.

John tests this hypothesis by shouting Sherlock’s name, and decides that says enough.

Having Sherlock inside of him is--different. Like--cleansing by fire, or debridement.

(Being inside of Sherlock, he thinks, is more like the universe settling into place.)

Every thrust of Sherlock’s hips is a burst of pleasure that flares and fades, forcing cries out of John’s throat and spasms down his limbs. His spine arches and he clenches his hands in the sheets. He’s close, just from this, so _fucking close_ he can taste it in the back of his mouth, cloyingly sweet and tantalizing, but he can’t--quite--

He snarls in frustration. Sherlock groans.

A drop of sweat trickles down the side of Sherlock’s face. John reaches up and catches it on his thumb. His fingers slide to the side, into Sherlock’s hair, curling around his ear and cupping the back of his neck.

“Mine,” John rasps, and kisses him.

As his tongue slides into Sherlock’s mouth his orgasm drags him under. His body takes over control. Wracked with ecstasy, he lets it, riding the waves of pleasure as they crash through him. Far away, Sherlock is stiffening with a shout and clinging to John’s shoulders. There is a sudden small burst of heat and wetness inside of John. John cries out, because that little surge of heat is spreading through him, body pulsing and pleasure rippling through. Sherlock slumps over him, spent, as John _keeps coming_.

Slowly, finally, it slows.

Weakens.

Stops.

John gulps in a breath and wipes at his face. Sherlock pulls out with a little wince and falls to his side. John considers saying something about cleanup.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says. “We’re not moving.”

John’s chest shakes with silent laughter.

His mouth is sticky. He swallows. A thought occurs.

“Is…”

His question trails off. The details of the preceding conversation are coming back to him and reminding him that his lingering question may not be particularly sensitive.

“What?”

John shakes his head. “Um. Never mind.”

Sherlock sighs. “You’re being fastidious.”

“You know, I don’t get to call you on this often, but I don’t think that’s what that word means.”

“Language is dynamic. If we both understand the meaning, its purpose is served.”

“Even if that's true, _we_ don’t.”

“We don’t what?”

“We don’t both understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

_“I_ don’t.”

Sherlock heaves another sigh. “You’re being careful of my _feelings_. You were going to ask if that was what it's like to be in estrus.”

John coughs. “Erm. Well. Yes.”

“No. It’s not.” Sherlock drums his fingers on his chest and doesn’t meet John’s eyes. “Perhaps a fraction of it at best. Heat is--all-encompassing, and it feels unending. You do not eat or drink or use the toilet or even stand, if you can help it. Your entire body gives itself over. You have no control over yourself and you do not care. Everything is the wet heat between your legs and the need to get something thick in you plugging you up until you can _breathe_ again.”

His tone is dry, clinical. If anything, he sounds disdainful. But then he reaches for John’s hand and entwines their fingers, and something hot and tight prickles in John’s throat.

“We’re fantastic. _You’re_ fantastic,” John says firmly. “I told you so.”

Sherlock’s mouth crooks up in a little half-smile. “Yes.”


	2. Flint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was riddled with empty spaces, places that had forgotten what it was like to be filled, but now there is John to set things right.

Sherlock wakes curled around John, sore and sticky but sated. He hums contentedly, pulls John tighter into him and rubs his cheek against the back of John’s head.

“What,” says John, “are you doing.”

“You smell good,” Sherlock informs him, and proves the point by burying his nose in John’s hair and inhaling deeply.

“If you’re angling for a morning quickie, give it up. My arse is on furlough.”

Sherlock pulls back in feigned shock. “How poorly you think of me.”

John snorts. “Budge up, the sheets need changing and we need a shower.”

Sherlock, frankly, couldn’t care less about the state of the bedsheets, and rather enjoys the implicit domesticity of lounging with his lover in the mornings, unwashed and lazy. He expresses his disapproval of John’s suggestion by planting a sweet, chaste kiss on the back of his neck.

“Give it up.”

He kisses John again and lets the inside of one lip drag against John’s skin a moment, leaving a trail of dampness. John breathes very slowly. Sherlock licks the inside of his lip, tasting salt and John.

“Alright, you raging pervert. Look, I’ll compromise. Get out of bed and you can suck me off in the shower.”

Sherlock grins.

\---

They’re quite busy for the next two weeks. Lestrade brings Sherlock a mysterious disappearance, a locked-door murder and an impossible theft. All three cases are brilliant and so is Sherlock. In solving them, John is forced to bodily subdue an agitated cocaine dealer and threaten an alpha female pawn shop employee who has the _gall_ to flirt with Sherlock. It’s _perfect_. Everything is _perfect_. He could positively _disintegrate_ with how perfect everything is.

After the recovery of the Japanese ambassador’s daughter (drug mishap, irresponsible friends; should make a full physical recovery, though her reputation will never recuperate), Sherlock spends three days baiting a blackmailer over the internet and eating his way through the flat.

“How in hell are we out of bread _again?”_ John says, tossing the heels into the bin.

Sherlock shrugs and bites into a ham sandwich. John sticks out his tongue at him.

“If you’re going to eat us out of house and home every time we get a run like that, I’m going to have to talk London’s delinquents into scheduling their crime sprees more carefully in future.”

Sherlock stuffs the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth and turns back to his computer, where he’s currently planting a series of incriminating photographs on several different websites. John sighs.

“Lord knows it’d be easier than getting you to go to the shop.”

Sherlock snorts around his sandwich and nearly chokes. John has a laugh at him, and Sherlock resorts to slinging a cushion at his head.

Chatting up the blackmailer takes longer than Sherlock expects. She’s quite clever, almost as clever as he is, though he feels uncharacteristically slow tonight. Why, _why_ is he so damned _slow_ tonight; he’s been _brilliant_ the past few days? Scowling, he rubs his eyes and blinks at the clock.

Ah.

While he does believe in starving the body to sharpen the mind, there is a certain point at which even Sherlock Holmes must surrender to his biological needs. That point tends to come around half-past three in the morning, which passed some twenty minutes ago. He bids the blackmailer good night, stumbles down the hall to the bedroom, strips his clothes off and crawls into bed in his pants. John stirs, but does not wake.

He smells _unfairly_ good. The whole room smells of him. Sherlock breathes deeply and lets his eyes sink slowly shut.

When he wakes, everything is _dreadful_.

How could he have ever thought the blackmailer case was worth his time? It’s dull, _hatefully_ dull. He considers getting out of bed and decides against it. There’s nothing worth his attentions outside of the bed in the entire city of London. Probably not in England. Europe. The bloody _world_ is dull.

John rolls over onto his back without waking. Sherlock feels a wave of affection wash over him. John is not dull. John is wonderful. Sherlock nestles in close to his side and tucks his face into John’s neck. Mmm. He shuts his eyes again and breathes. John’s scent curls inside of him like campfire smoke. Sherlock plants a wet kiss to the side of his neck, lips parted and tongue flicking out to catch a taste.

John shifts. He’s awake now; Sherlock can tell. He almost says “good morning,” but it comes out as a hum against John’s skin. John sighs.

“Mm. Morning, love. What time is it?”

The question is ridiculous and irrelevant. Sherlock opts to ignore it, which he regrets a moment later when John kisses him on the top of the head and rolls out of bed. He grimaces, feeling halved.

“Shit. I’ve got to go to work. It’s eight already. Pick this back up after?”

Sherlock scowls. John smiles and eyes Sherlock appreciatively. Sherlock’s stomach tingles.

“Love you.”

John bends, kisses Sherlock’s shoulder, and _leaves_. Leaves, when it’s so obvious he wants to stay _here,_ _has_ to stay here, where he’s _supposed_ to be, where he _belongs!_ Sherlock sinks miserably into the pillows and groans.

He does not get up while John is in the shower, nor when he’s getting dressed, nor when he makes breakfast. It would be _worthless_. John is leaving and taking all of the interesting things in the _universe_ with him. Something worries at the base of his skull, but he can’t muster the energy to truly panic. He could sleep again. Time passes when you’re asleep. Perhaps he can sleep until John gets home from work and kisses his mouth and strips off his clothes and fucks him slowly and tenderly. Sherlock’s face flushes at the thought. He curls into a ball and tries to sleep.

He succeeds, more or less. The nap is fitful and full of strange, shapeless dreams, more colors and sounds and sensations than images or words. Everything is dark reds and purples and blues and a sickly-sweet taste in his mouth and _hot,_ not like an oven or a flame but like a humid August afternoon, no breeze no shade no respite, just the sun beating down on you and your sweat-damp clothes clinging to your skin. Sherlock wants it to _stop,_ wants dry silk and cool air and mint green. In the dreams, he curls into a ball and wishes for a quiet room to be in and wait until the sun relents, but relief never comes.

Sherlock wakes lightheaded and overheated and a bit sick. He shifts restlessly in the bed. He still feels unpleasantly sticky. A long bath should help. John does that often, takes baths when he’s sick.

The cramp in Sherlock’s stomach tightens. Suddenly, getting out of bed is imperative.

He runs into the bathroom, drops to all fours in front of the toilet, rests his forehead against the rim and waits. His stomach cramps. He grits his teeth and is just about to retch, but then it relaxes, and he’s fine again.

Sherlock breathes slowly and deeply, swallowing against the knot of discomfort inside of him. The tile is hard and prickly on his bare knees and the porcelain is cold against his face in a way that’s equal parts irritating and soothing. The whole room smells of lemon-scented cleaning product and John’s body wash. His stomach churns, but it’s not unbearable.

Eventually, Sherlock decides he’s not going to be sick after all.

Back to bed? No, he can’t sleep now. He climbs unsteadily to his feet and scruffs up his hair. Bath, then.

Baths take too long. The tub’s not even half full when he pulls the plug and switches on the shower. He climbs under the spray and almost crumples to the floor at how good it feels. Hot, sleek, streaming water sluicing down his skin, dislodging the grit and grime and sweat and oil from his skin and washing him clean. He moans in relief.

He is hard, which is strange, but not distracting enough to concern him. Mildly interesting at best. He ignores it.

The water goes cold almost immediately, or so it feels. Sherlock switches off the tap with a scowl. He doesn’t bother putting his pants back on after he towels himself dry. John’s only going to take them off when he gets home. God, is he _ever_ going to be home? Normally Sherlock’s fine by himself, enjoys the peace, really, but today the silence is oppressive.

Sherlock crawls into bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. The sheets are cool and smooth against his skin. Bed was a good idea. He should be ready for John when he gets home, so John can roll Sherlock over and spit him whole.

Sherlock arches his back and drags his limbs over the sheets. God, that’ll feel good, John going stiff-jawed and teary-eyed, struggling to keep control as he sinks into Sherlock’s flesh, John’s hands on Sherlock’s hips holding him still as he pounds over and over into Sherlock’s body, John’s hoarse shout as his knot swells inside of Sherlock, plugging him up until he sees stars--

Sherlock is panting.

He palms experimentally at his cock. The flare of sensation is good, dizzyingly so, but _not enough_. His heart thumps and thumps and thumps and he squeezes his legs together. His stomach clenches again, but this time it’s not like he’s going to retch, it’s more like--

_\--oh--_

He spreads his legs, tips his hips up, and reaches between them to swipe at his arse. His finger would come away wet, if he could pull it away at all.

_I should call John, I should--_

Yes, there can be no question about it. This is estrus. Not proestrus, the appetite and discomfort and emotional bipolarity that serves as a warning sign to most omegas, but proper estrus, the real thing. Sherlock is in _heat_.

He rubs his finger back and forth over his arsehole and gasps.

_John--_

_I need--I need to--_

Everything else smears into irrelevance as Sherlock wriggles his fingertip in, wrenching a groan from his chest. His back arches and his toes curl and dig into the sheets. He squirms restlessly down onto his finger. Had he been going to do something? Surely not. It couldn’t be that important. Having _more_ is all that matters right now, more of something, _anything,_ stuffing him up until he’s so full he can’t move or speak or _breathe_ from it. Impatient, he works two fingers in at once. The stretch burns, but then he presses in further and the sting subsides into a deep ache of something much more pleasant.

Sherlock grimaces. He’s leaking onto his hand, soaking a wet patch in the sheets. He needs John here to soothe him and push his knot into him and make everything right. He needs him, and he knows John would come if he called, but he just--can’t--make--himself--

Through his haze, Sherlock registers the sound of the front door banging open. It might startle him normally, but not today, not now, when he’s too wrecked with lust to so much as _stand_. He breathes in. His eyes widen.

“John,” he croaks. “John--”

He can hear John shedding clothes all the way up the stairs. By the time he reaches the bedroom, he’s down to naught but trousers.

John stops in the doorway, mouth agape. Sherlock imagines the scene: sheets rumpled, whole flat reeking of randy omega, Sherlock naked and dripping with three fingers up him--yes, John’s reaction is expectable.

“Christ,” John says. He sounds choked. “I could smell you from the _door.”_

Sherlock pulls his fingers out with a wince and spreads his legs.

John keeps talking as he strips off his trousers and pants. “Took me bloody _ages,_ was _hours_ before I put everything together, and when you wouldn’t answer your phone--”

Had it rung? Sherlock hadn’t noticed, he was--busy.

“--knew it was that or you’d gotten yourself kidnapped, and either way you’d need me.”

“Need you.” Sherlock really cannot make himself look any more desirable. He grimaces. “Need you _now.”_

John more or less falls onto the bed, straddles Sherlock’s waist, pins his wrists down and kisses him furiously. He’s hard already. Sherlock can feel his erection hot and heavy between them. He worries at John’s lip with his teeth and struggles, trying to get his hands free to touch and feel and explore.

“Hold on a--minute. God, Sherlock--I want--want this to last.”

Sherlock doesn’t want it to _last_. Sherlock wants to pin John to the mattress and ride him until he pops. He tries to string as many words together between kisses, but it comes out as just _“fuck me,”_ which turns out to be counter to certain objectives.

“Get on your front,” John says. It comes out harsher and rougher than he probably meant.

There was more time. Sherlock could ride him later. John lifts his weight off of Sherlock enough for him to roll over onto his hands and knees. As soon as he’s gotten all four limbs under him, John is behind him, holding him by the hips and positioning him like a sodding action figure.

“Knees apart, arse in the--oh God, yeah, arse in the air.” He traces his fingers over the base of Sherlock’s neck, the bumps of his vertebrae, and the dip in his lower back, cups the round curve of Sherlock’s arse and squeezes.

_“Please,”_ Sherlock whines.

“Are you wet enough for me, love? Are you ready?”

_Dear_ God, _how can you even--_

Sherlock half-howls in frustration, but then John pierces him with two fingers and he has to bite the pillow to keep from shouting. It’s--close, only not quite what he needs by _this_ much.

“Oh, God, yeah, you’re fucking dripping, aren’t you?”

Sherlock whimpers. He wants to _move,_ to fuck himself on John’s fingers, but John’s fingers aren’t what he wants, what he needs, they’re _not enough--_

All the same, when John pulls back it is _agony_. Sherlock gasps at the withdrawal. It’s cold and, oh God, it’s _empty,_ so horribly _empty_. Panic rises in his throat, choking and desperate, and his chest heaves for breath.

John strokes his hand down Sherlock’s back. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you. It’s alright.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. He’s shaking. He wants to stop, but he hasn’t got the control. His body is rejecting him like a transplanted heart, fighting him like a virus. His _mind,_ his body is trying to shake his _mind_. He drops to his elbows and presses his forehead into the pillow.

He needs to tell this to John. It seems important that John know this. John can help. “I can’t." It's the closest he can manage. “John, I--I can’t stop. My--my body, it’s--I’m--”

John kisses the nape of his neck. The touch of his lips is a balm, soothing Sherlock’s nerves on contact. His hands are soft and dry on Sherlock’s sides. “Shh,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock manages a nod. “Please.”

John kisses the back of his neck again, which shouldn’t make Sherlock go absolutely speechless with affection. Does, though. _How_ it does.

Sherlock tilts his hips up towards John. It’s hardly necessary. John’s already nestling the head of his cock between Sherlock’s arse cheeks and pressing slowly--

\--gently--

\--forward--

John lets out a small, quiet groan. Sherlock practically _sobs_. John is long and thick and _hard,_ and Sherlock is so very open and ready for him. He was riddled with empty spaces, places that had forgotten what it was like to be filled, but now there is John to set things right.

“Almost there,” John says. “I--oh, yeah, almost--”

John’s cock nudges past Sherlock’s vaginal aperture, which is--yes, oh _God,_ yes. That’s had nothing in it in _years_. The shock is like firecrackers behind his eyelids. He makes a high, desperate noise like a whimper and balls his hands into fists. He wants to shove back, impale himself on what’s left, but he has to trust John with this. John knows better. John is in control, even when Sherlock is utterly lost. He relaxes.

And--just like that, that’s everything. All but the knot, which Sherlock will ease himself onto just as soon as he can. He can feel it outside of him, teasing his entrance.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s good,” John says breathlessly. “You okay, love?”

Sherlock answers by rocking back to the tune of a fluttering in his insides that quickly blossoms into a spasm, muscles tightening and clenching around the cock inside of him. John’s hands fly up to Sherlock’s hips as if he can’t stop himself. He pulls half out and pushes back in hard, forcing his knot in past the resistance. Now Sherlock _does_ yell, as if he could expel the surge of _oh-God-almost-too-much_ out his throat, and John doesn’t stop.

_Exquisite_ is the word for it, for the slick slide of John’s cock in and out of him, John’s small, strong hands on his waist and hips, the slight jolt of the knot when it notches into place only to be drawn away. The pleasure is so acute it’s nearly painful. It’s absolutely overwhelming.

“Mine,” Sherlock hisses through his teeth with all the air in his body. “You’re _mine.”_

John groans and fucks him harder.

Sherlock is shouting continuously. It’s nothing comprehensible, no intelligible words, just strings of vowels spilling from his throat. A spasm rolls through his gut and he rolls his hips with it, back onto John, and John gasps.

“Come on--” Sherlock grinds out.

John bends over double and mouths at Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock’s mouth falls open at the touch of his lips. Something is building, terrifyingly massive in scale, threatening to devour him whole.

“John. _Oh_ \--John, I’m--”

“Yeah, come on,” John growls. “Come for me.”

Sherlock cries out once. His eyelids flutter shut, and like that, orgasm explodes through his body, current sparking down nerves and veins. He sways and shakes, while a long way away John is shouting. The rush of fluid and the feeling of his body clamping down compounds the sensation until it crescendoes and crests in another orgasm that echoes through Sherlock’s limbs and chest and head until he’s screaming from the pleasure.

Coming down is its own sort of relief. Sherlock can feel the animal instinct fading into the background and his mind stepping forward, back into control for the time being. He collapses onto his stomach with a heavy sigh. John catches him round the waist and rolls them onto their sides as one unit.

“You’re forgetting something, genius.”

Sherlock absolutely had forgotten something. He’s not forgetting it now, though, now that John’s gasping and coming inside of him again. It’s not so strong, it never is, but Sherlock still shivers.

“That’s good, isn’t it, though?” John says, when he’s got his breath back.

“Mm?”

“You. Me. This.”

“Oh. Obviously.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to look at John to know when he’s rolling his eyes.

“I took a shower before you got here, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Yeah, because that’s absolutely what I worry about when my bonded mate’s in full-blown heat.”

Sherlock would never admit to it under even the most refined of tortures, but he loves when John talks about him like he’s a possession. “My bonded.” “My mate.” “My” anything, if he’s to be very honest about it.

“You are glad, though?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment. John has stirred inside of him a little, and the ensuing sensation is delicious.

“Sherlock?”

“Are you?”

John snorts. “Do I feel glad?”

He rolls his hips very deliberately. Sherlock moans and bites at the base of his thumb. He’d like to do more biting.

“Oh God, don’t tease me, that’s horrid. I’ve only got another quarter of an hour of this and then I’m back to thrashing in the sheets again.”

“Not an unattractive look on you.”

“Attracting you is hardly a challenge.”

“Never,” John admits cheerfully, and plants a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder with a loud smack.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. He wants to kiss back. He wants to be able to see and lick and taste, not just receive. And he’d better make any major decisions now, before his body starts ruling his mind again.

“I want to ride you next time.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
